sparrow on the windowsill
by ivory bones
Summary: <html><head></head>Perhaps affection towards one lonely, little boy is the solution to all problems. au. si. —tom riddle jr.</html>
1. prolouge

**disclaimer:** own nothing but oc.

**a/n:** surprise, surprise, a multi-chaptered fic (this had been bouncing in my head for _years_). and i'm so rusty it's not even funny.

**warnings:** more to family stuff here than romance. maybe there will be but i'm doubtful. also, this should not be too long since my motivation dies too easily.

**. . .**

prologue

_there is a place called home_

**. . .**

The front gate is a pitiful sight.

Glum, dark letters of rusting steel are fixed above the entrance. The railings surrounding the orphanage are tall and imposing, though the building itself is much worse. Chipped bricks has its color washed away through the years, and it looms over her, making her uneasy.

She stops and takes a deep breath, relaxing her too tense muscles, then exhaling, long and slowly.

(Why is she feeling this unbearable, pressing nervousness—)

With a single push and a metallic screech, she enters.

**. . .**

"Tom? Tom Marvolo Riddle, you mean?"

She brightens noticeably (but inwardly flinches) and nods.

"And how are you related…?" Mrs. Cole asks her, hesitantly.

"We are distant cousins. Through his mother's side." She shifts her eyes downward—_show remorse, guilt, paint it across your face_—and wrings her hands together, biting her lip. "I-I just knew not long ago that she had a son. We don't usually keep in contact due to some…disagreements in the past but," Raising her head, she meets the eyes of the woman, "family is family, no matter what."

Mrs. Cole looks sympathetic now, and nods her head in understanding with a small, sad smile. The suspicion in her posture is seeping away, barely there at all.

(This is good. Loyalty to family has always made people soft. Not all, but enough.)

"I see. Then would you like to meet him?" Suddenly her eyes widen minutely in remembrance, "Oh, but there's also something else…"

"Yes? What is it? …Is he sick?"

"Oh, no, no. It's just—just that there have been strange things happening around him and—"

"Family is family, Mrs. Cole." This is said quietly but perhaps something in her eyes had caused the older woman to pause, "No matter how _strange_ he may be."

"Right." She eases slightly—_in relief?_—and says, "Alright, Ms. Juniper. Then please follow me."

**. . .**

A bed, a closet, and a window decorates the room. It is mostly empty but thankfully, she thinks, clean.

And there is an edge to this child that a four year old should not have.

"Who are you?" His voice is small and childlike (was it wrong to have braced herself for some hissing and malevolence?) but under his gaze, she feels scrutinized.

"I am a very distant cousin of yours." She offers him a tentative smile, surprisingly somewhat sincere, "My name is Shannon Juniper."

Tom doesn't react like how most children would have. Somehow, she expected this.

Instead, his eyes narrow further, "If you are family, where have you been all these years?"

(It's somewhat heartbreaking for her to see someone so small to be so _cautious_ and so _wary_. He is too _young_.

...even though she had been the same at his age, she's a different case altogether.)

"You may not believe me," she sighs, with something like exasperation, "but I just knew about you recently, Tom. However, well, I am here now aren't I?"

The silence after her question is not as deafening as she thought it would be. And she knows how to patiently wait for the positive response (why would he even _think_ of rejecting her offer?)

"So I'm going with you?" He says, finally, with an odd tinge of hopefulness.

"Yes. You'll be living with me now, Tom. Oh, and my mother. I hope you're alright with this."

"Yes!" He reins in his glee with a flush on his cheeks. "I mean, I would like to…live with you."

She had almost laughed at how _innocent_ he is (she should have known better than to _assume_ that a child would be _evil_) and she finds that the grin stretching across her face is almost every inch genuine (because she's not that much of a fool). "Great! Then pack up and we'll be going!"

"But—But wait!" Abruptly, the boy seems anxious. It causes her one eyebrow to climb further up her forehead, questioning. "I-I also have something else to tell you." His coal irises sparkles with innocence, doubt and _longing_. "Sometimes strange things happen around me and I can control it most of the time but—"

"I know." She interrupts softly, carefully, "It's just that you have a very special talent. Do you want to know what it is?"

"What is it?" He is bright with curiosity and anticipation. She finds herself smirking again in amusement.

Leaning in, she whispers into his ear (she refrains herself from chukling as he shifts closer to her) while she lifts her wand in front of him, "Magic."

And she mutters an almost silent _lumos_ under her breath.

**. . .**

**a/n2:** so, er, what do you think? and yes, this is a reincarnation semi self-insert plus an adopt tom fic. i'll probably fix this later.

**a/n3: **i did end up fixing this hah.


	2. chapter 1

**a/n:** drabble style (thus, short chapters) because i love it. plus no update schedule yet.

**. . .**

i.

_riverside_

**. . .**

She knows that she is odd.

From the moment she opens her eyes and breathes in sweet, s_weet _air, she whispers a silent, rasp _impossible_, but it hopelessly bounces off her head as her tongue failed her like it never before.

And then her mother rocks her—gently, closely. She coos at her daughter-yet-not while her forehead crinkles and her lips turn downwards into a worried frown from the baby's lack of response.

(It's utterly _shocking_ even after days and days of moving, breathing, _living_. In response, she stares, unblinking, like an utter fool who could not get ahold of himself.)

Her very soul refuses and strains itself to chant_ dream, dream, dream_.

Every day, she closes her eyes, sleeps dreamlessly and wakes to chirping outside her window.

But there is no waking up.

**. . .**

Magic is something constant.

(Under her skin, tickling, and merely like a trickle of blood in her bloodstream but _there_.)

Her eyes, not fully developed as they are, could only vaguely make out _wands_ and _floating_ or _moving _inanimate objects with no contact whatsoever with her new parents' hands.

(And she can hear the muttered _spells_ when they are particularly close to her.)

The first time she sees, she laughs at nobody in particular (or maybe herself) because the world has gone bloody, irreparably _insane_.

Though not as much when they mentioned _'Hogwarts'_. She had went hysterical then.

Unfortunately, her parents translates her laughter (logic, beliefs, _everything_ is crashing and burning) to one of joy from the show of magic itself. Their brilliant conclusion was to entertain her with more magic which would result in more giggling and thus, her happiness (which is horribly wrong).

At that moment, she wants to wail and cry like a baby she is (reduced to a completely dependent mess of short limbs and unintelligible gurgles), but chains the urges down because at the very least, she _can_—she _will_—control herself.

Thank the gods or Merlin or Harry Potter himself that she did _not_ scream in sheer despair and frustration.

**. . .**

Her very first word (not really) had been a simple 'da'.

After comes 'ma' and she calls herself 'Annon', under her parents soft insistence, because she couldn't pronounce her s's as well as she thought she should have.

(It's eerie how close the nickname she made for herself is to the word _anonymous_.)

**. . .**

1914.

She is in Britain, year 1914.

Before Harry Potter, before Marauders, before Tom Riddle and most importantly, before _both World Wars_.

Plainly speaking, she is, in one word, _screwed_.

(After that, the newspaper _burned_ under her glare. How wonderful—her first accidental magic. It was unexpectedly violent, but she had been somewhat twistedly pleased about it.)

**. . .**

Behind her closed eyelids, she could make out the muted pitter patter of the rain as it hits the rooftop.

The man—who really is her father—closes the story book with a sigh and she could feel his smile on his lips as he kisses her forehead before bidding her a quiet 'good night'.

Silence descended in the dimly lit room, faint light only pouring out of the window, and she opens her eyes.

(How incredibly easy it is to deceive them. Sometimes, she feels torn on whether to bathe in relief or grimace in disappointment. However, she couldn't really blame them—she is a _toddler _after all.)

The wooden crib creaks as she shifts to her side, recalling briefly with a crooked smile that a year before, she could barely do so. Burying herself further into her covers, she exhales, almost silently, and drifts into her daily nap.

It has been a long time since she last hoped for it to be simply fantasy, and now it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth when she reminisces on possessing such a wish.

**. . .**

**a/n2: **didn't expect the support and kind words (for barely 800 words woah) and so, thank you.


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